Follow My Lead
by ameliagianna
Summary: JOHNLOCK One-shots. Rated T to be safe, could change later.
1. Return to Baker Street

_Sometime in the near future…_

John unlocks the door of the flat and walks in, flipping through a bundle of post.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," he calls, but gets no reply.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he calls again. When he's left in silence, he shrugs to himself and continues up the steps.

He opens the door at the top of the stairs. He places his keys on the desk by the door.

When he's flipped through all the mail, he also places that on the desk.

He looks up and finds one of the chairs—_his_ chair—occupied by someone reading a book. It covers their face.

"Hello," he says.

"John," the voice says, and it's…

No, it can't be. It can't.

But the book lowers, and it _is_.

"Sherlock?" he chokes out.

He smiles, but not smugly. "You asked for one last miracle."

"Of course you were listening," John murmurs to himself.

Now Sherlock's smirking.

"Oh my god," John whispers. "It's really you, isn't it? This isn't some hallucination or something?"

Sherlock stands. "No, John. I am here, in the flesh."

John takes a few tentative steps forward, reaches out slowly and taps Sherlock's arm, testing his existence.

"Told you, in the fl—"

He's cut off by John's fist hooking the left side of his lower jaw. Sherlock stumbles back into his chair, John standing over him, holding his fist.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock asks.

"Where have you been?"

"Around," he mutters. "Why'd you hit me?"

"Because I felt like it," he says.

Sherlock stands. "I suppose I might of deserved that."

"_Might of?_" John repeats.

"Okay, I did."

"Damn right," John says, tackling Sherlock in a hug.

It takes him a second to realize, but he claps John on the back and he pulls away. "Sorry," John mutters.

"No problem," Sherlock says.

"How'd you do it?" John asks. "Fake your…death, I mean? I saw you jump."

Sherlock side-steps John and heads for the door. "I'll explain on the way."

"On the way where?"

"To solve a case."

"You've been back from the dead for all of five seconds and you already have a case? What about all that rubbish about you in the papers?"

"Fortunately, I found someone other than you who doesn't believe it. Now, come on!" he says, already on the stairs.

John grabs his keys and runs after him.

At the bottom of the steps, Sherlock opens the door for Mrs. Hudson, who has two arms full of groceries.

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, evening, boys."

"Off we go!" Sherlock says, disappearing to hail a taxicab.

"Bye, Mrs. Hudson," John calls, closing the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson stops at her door. "_Boys?_" she asks herself, drops both bags of groceries to the floor, and faints.

* * *

**A/N: Wrote this ages ago now…well, a month or two. Couldn't decide what I wanted to do with it. It's a non-angsty take on Sherlock's return to Baker Street, which I don't think is very plot-accurate because SO MUCH ANGST, OH MY MOFFAT. Posting it here for fun. First Johnlock fic I ever wrote. Expect many, many more (mostly because that's what my muse is INSISTING upon). SHIP IT LIKE FEDEX. And review, please!**


	2. All there is

Mrs. Hudson is just preparing herself a cup of tea when she hears a knock at her kitchen door.

She turns toward it just in time to see it swing open, and to see the tall, gangly mess of Sherlock Holmes to come sweeping into her flat. He looks more worse for wear than she's seen him in a very long time, worse than she remembers when 'The Woman' was around.

"Sherlock, dear, what's wrong?" she asks as he drops himself into one of her chairs, the noise of the legs grinding against her lino making her jump slightly.

"Everything," he murmurs into his hand, elbow propped up on her table. "Everything."

"Oh, dear," she whispers, and immediately makes him a cup of tea.

He's silent, statuesque in fact, while she busies around him. Finally, when she sets down their cups and takes her own seat, Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets down his hand. "Do you think I'm capable of love, Mrs. Hudson?" he asks immediately.

She sips at her tea delicately, and sets her cup down. "Oh, Sherlock. Of course you are."

He closes his eyes and says quietly, "But it's different with me, right? I don't process emotions the same way as everyone else."

Mrs. Hudson chooses her words carefully. "That may be the case, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean you're any less capable of it. It just means…"

He looks up, eyes pleading for something.

"You may not show it as often, or in a way that others understand, but that doesn't mean you feel it any less than the rest of us."

He fusses with the cup but never lifts it from the table. "But what does it matter if I can't show him?" he murmurs.

Mrs. Hudson takes a deep breath. She reaches out and places her hand over Sherlock's. While she expects to some degree he'll pull away, she knows he won't. "My dear, clueless Sherlock," she says, smiling softly. "Have you tried telling him?"

"I don't know how, Mrs. Hudson," he says, sitting up and gesticulating violently. "That's my problem, that I don't even know what I'm feeling, let alone how to articulate it in a way that John'll understand…" He trails off, slowly quieting and dropping his hands into his lap. "We slept together," he whispers. "Not anything, you know, like that, but we slept in the same bed and now my head is spinning and I don't know what is happening."

"Did it make you happy?" she asks, calm and steady as ever.

"Did sleeping with John make me…happy?" he repeats. "I—I don't know."

"Well, how did you feel?"

He closes his eyes, thinking. "I don't, uh—comfortable, I guess. And, uh, safe? Safe. Content. Not necessarily happy, but, you know, content."

"Content how?"

He curls up his elbow on the table and drops his face into it. "Like I could stay there forever," he mumbles.

"Then there's your answer," Mrs. Hudson declares.

He looks up, chin still tucked into the crook of his arm but his alarmingly blue eyes intent on her.

"That's all there is?" he asks.

"Isn't that enough?" she responds.

A second passes, and a smile slowly spreads over his cheeks. "Thank you," he says.

* * *

**A/N: Originally part of my e.e. cummings/Johnlock fics, but half-way through I decided it didn't fit what I was trying to do. But I still liked it, so I'm keeping it. Mrs. Hudson is our Johnlock Shipper Queen in my opinion, but more in secret than anything. R+R?**


	3. He Who Needs Comfort Shall Not Seek It

The good doctor stood in the deep, ceramic, claw-foot tub, his left hand braced against the wall, the blistering hot water falling over his neck and shoulders. The water permeated his skin, slowly relaxing his tensed muscles. He inhaled deeply, taking his time releasing the breath, concentrating on nothing but the feel of the shower against him.

In his daze, he barely noticed the faint presence of music filtering through the walls. He only vaguely recognized the tune, and his first instinct told him Sinatra. He didn't know for sure, the louder, closer volume of the shower left its identity unreachable. He went back to his thoughts, spinning so the water fell upon his closed eyes and switching his right hand to the wall to hold himself upright, for he felt as if at any moment he could slip and fall. He stayed like that for several more moments before the sound of the bathroom startled him back into awareness, but he needn't ask who enter, for he knew only one person would bother to interrupt him, no matter the reason, no matter the situation.

He waited a considerable length of time for the deep, velvet voice to assault him with a new case or a narrative about how he should stop wasting water, wasting their water. But instead was greeted with the shower curtain being pulled open and was joined by another body.

His arm dropped in an instinct to cover himself but his companion responded with "Oh, don't even bother."

"Sherlock, what—" he managed before the other man closes the curtain behind him. Sherlock interrupted with, "It's not like we haven't seen each other naked before."

And with those words, the last sense of modesty he had fell away without effort, as he simply accepted the man's explanation. His physical vulnerability dissipated, but his psychological vulnerability rose as if to fill the void that was left. In an attempt to hide his red-rimmed eyes—he hadn't cried, nor did he think he would, but that didn't mean his body wasn't trying—he turned his back to the taller man and muttered, "Whatever."

There were several beats of silence before he felt the hands on his shoulders. He began to ask, "What are you doing?" but less than a single syllable had escaped him before he felt a set of lips on his left shoulder blade, where they both knew resided the scar from his exit wound.

The lips murmured, "It's okay, John," and no other words were spoken. They weren't needed.

**A/N: I was feeling angsty the day I wrote this. Go figure. The song I had in my mind was 'That's Life' by Frank Sinatra, because I've recently been addicted to the SMASH cover duet by Katherine McPhee and Megan Hilty. I don't know where this would be, timeline-wise (pre- or post-Reichenbach, I mean) and I don't know what was wrong with John. It was just an idea. REVIEWS ARE MY BREAD AND BUTTER.**

**(Oh, and the line that talks about vulnerability and 'filling the void that was left' was totally a play on one of my AP Chemistry lessons. I forget what it was called, but it was about when you take away some of the reactants, do the concentrations of the other reactants or the products go up, or something. I'm rambling, now. Ta!)**


	4. Stand-Off

John straddles Sherlock on the couch, their hands locked on the paper smashed between them. John's lips are an inch from Sherlock's, and John can feel the low, calm breathing of the man below him.

* * *

_Several minutes earlier…_

"Sherlock, did you grab the post?" John called as he entered the flat behind his partner.

Sherlock didn't respond, not even a grunt, he merely swept into his bedroom and the door closed loudly behind him.

"I'll take that as a no," he muttered, turning back down the stairs. When he made it to the front door and leaned out, lifted the lid on the post-box, it was empty.

He let it fall and trumped back up the stairs.

At Sherlock's door, he pounded a closed fist against the painted wood. "Sherlock!" he called, "What have you done with the post?"

There was no reply. He tried the doorknob, but it was locked—which was strange. Either Sherlock was out or asleep, the only other times he was in his room was changing clothes and he mostly just left the door open for that.

"Goddamn it, Sherlock, give me my post."

The door swung open and Sherlock quickly pushed pass John in the direction of the lounge. John followed and Sherlock stopped beside the couch, holding a piece of paper in his hand tightly. His knuckles were white, and he held it in John's direction—not to offer it up, not at all, but to accuse and question.

"Do you always read my letters?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, managing to look bored even during their stand-off. "Only when it pertains to me or I have nothing better to do. This was the former, was it not?"

John didn't answer. He shuffled his feet nervously and balled his fists at his sides. After uncomfortably clearing his throat, he mumbled, "Are you gonna give it to me or not?"

"Not," Sherlock spoke without hesitation. "Unless you intend to explain."

And even though John thought it a long-shot, he lunged for the paper.

* * *

The moments between when John went for the paper and when he and Sherlock ended up in the compromising position on the couch were a little hazy, to both of them.

They're so close, John would need only shift his weight fractionally and their lips would touch.

Instead, he sits up on top of Sherlock. "Give it," he says.

Sherlock shakes his head once, has no intention of letting it go. But neither of them is really considering letting it tear, so John's the first to release his grip.

"Why does it matter?" he asks loudly.

"Because it does," Sherlock says after a moment's hesitation.

"You don't know, do you? You just want to pry into my life."

"I didn't say that," Sherlock rebuffs.

"No, you said you only read my post if it pertains to you—and this doesn't."

"One, I said if it pertains to me or if I have nothing better to do; and two, I think it does."

John sighs, and suddenly remembers where they are and what they're doing.

"Are you going to get up anytime soon? Because I would like to return to my room if you're not going to explain yourself," Sherlock says.

But John's not giving up that easily, either. "No, I think I'll just stay right here until you give me the letter."

"Suit yourself," Sherlock says with a mild smirk, looking directly into John's eyes.

The eye contact is so intense, it should just make the situation more…awkward. But it's not just eye contact, it's a challenge. The stand-off continues, both of them with hands at their gun belts.

Sherlock knows John will give first, but he's enjoying the fight the good doctor is putting up. And even though he knows all he needs to know—the letter was rather self-explanatory—it doesn't mean he wouldn't like to hear it from John directly. He's been wrong in the past. Very rarely, but this is one of those matters where he doesn't immediately trust his first instinct—an intellectual gray area for him, and only John can clear the air.

John sighs, and Sherlock fights another smirk. He wants John to confess, not be angry.

"It began not long after Baskerville…"

* * *

**A/N: This fic is pretty vague, and I apologize. In my head, this was a letter from Harry, John's sister, and it may have discussed John possibly having feelings for Sherlock. In my head, there's always been a little something between the two respective halves of my current OTP, Johnlock, but that it wasn't really tangible until season 2, at least. I think it may have even been there as early as 'Belgravia', but end of 'Baskerville' seemed a natural point for John to realize it. On a separate note, I sometimes am scared (and a little too happy) that I can hear our dear Sherlock's voice so well in my head. I'm not necessarily talking mannerisms or anything quite so complicated, I'm literally talking about Benedict's actual **_**voice**_**. Oi, that voice. I need help. Review?**


	5. Doctor

The man was a curiosity.

Doctor John Watson didn't really understand his draw to this mystery patient, but he recognized it straightaway.

The man was in a coma. He had been found, overdosing on cocaine, and he just hadn't woken up. When John received the case, he'd been unconscious for almost a week. They didn't know what was causing it—there was no physical trauma apparent to cause it, nor any debilitating mental anomalies they saw on the scans—and his first doctor had all but given up on him.

John was handed the file by a different man—though he bore a resemblance to the unconscious one in his physical features—because the other doctor was an "unqualified, bumbling idiot."

Having recently returned from Afghanistan, John had been handled with kid gloves by the other surgery staff—he was displaying some possible symptoms of PTSD, and his therapist's convinced his limp is psychosomatic. But this man, this regal, demanding man, simply thrust the folder into his hands and muttered, "Surely anyone could do better than this fool."

He had been referring to Doctor Number One. John didn't know the man well, had greeted him in passing but nothing more. He didn't pity him when he was outcast by Mycroft Holmes, who seemed to demand excellence in all things.

John was going to give it to him.

The patient was Mycroft's younger brother, Sherlock Holmes. The elder Holmes regarded him carefully in the moments after his 'selection', and smirked. "Go on, then," he pushed, "do your job."

John did.

The situation was an unusual one, but John did everything in his power to settle the dust Mycroft was stirring up.

After an examination and a sleepless night going over the patient's file, John called Mycroft back.

"Theoretically, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your brother," he started, "except for the fact that he hasn't woken up."

"Yes, that much I understand, Doctor Watson," Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

John ignored that. "And, as I'm sure you know, after the first week, the chances of him waking up go down a bit."

"And there's simply nothing left you can do," he mocks harshly. "Are all the doctors here this impeccably dismissive?"

"Mr. Holmes, I think you misunderstand."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

"While it is true that your brother is a rather…_unusual_ case, I have no intention of giving up on him. Whether he's in that coma for a day more or a year, I will do everything in my power to treat him."

Mycroft stares.

"Whether or not he wakes up at all, I am a doctor and he is my patient. I give you my word, I will do my job as long as I am able."

There's three beats of silence before Mycroft relaxes slightly in his chair and the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smirk.

"That loyalty kicked in rather quickly. Your dedication in appreciated, Doctor Watson."

Not long after, Mycroft left. John sagged into the vacated chair, exhausted and glad to be alone. Well, alone as he could be in a room with a man in a coma.

He glanced over at the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes.

"You're to be a tricky one," he whispered.

**A/N: I don't really know what this was, to be honest. It was an idea which stubbornly manifested itself in the forefront of my thought process until it was on paper (or computer, I guess) and I kind of like it. I could realistically come up with an entire storyline for this—but I won't. Sorry. I already have too much on my plate, and in my opinion, there are entirely too many Doctor!John/Patient!Sherlock fics out there. (I actually read one recently that was quite good, but that's beside the point.) So I'm stopping this one here, at a happy (for me) place. On another note, I enjoyed writing Mycroft. Review?**


	6. Research

"How did this happen?" John laughs, both surprised and a little nervous about how comfortable the naked body next to his feels. "How did we end up here?"

"Well," Sherlock says, a hand possessively on John's bare hip, "It began with you walking into my lab at St. Bart's, with your psychosomatic limp and useless cane and heaps of information to be had."

"_Heaps_ of information?" John repeats. "To be _had_?"

Sherlock ignores him. "and I just knew I couldn't let you get away. You were the most interesting person I'd met, and I had to keep you—to learn everything about you." He squeezes John's hip appreciatively, and John squirms a little.

"And have you?" he asks, one hand fussing about in Sherlock's hair.

"Not even a dent," Sherlock says with a smirk, "but this little activity yielded some progress, indeed."

"Glad I could assist your research," John says.

Sherlock shifts his weight, pushing down on John's hip.

It hurts, but not in a way that makes him want it to stop. A good pain. God, being with Sherlock was making him borderline _masochist_.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock is on his knees beside John—who's flat on the bed—and towering over him. The sheet, which had just been at their waists, slips and falls away from Sherlock. "Up for some more?" Sherlock teases, his baritone voice deep, sultry, and ever so inviting.

John, suddenly emblazoned with unexpected confidence, pulls Sherlock down on top of him in a rough, passionate kiss.

When they break for air, Sherlock gasps, "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

"You'd better," John adds before pulling him in for another.

* * *

**A/N: SMUT. With a capital erry-thang. (****That was weird****.) Short, but I like. Review, Forrest, review!**


	7. Feeling

**A/N: *Spoilers through Reichenbach Fall, if you even care.***

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had never felt this way before.

Then again, he had never been in a relationship—a real, honest-to-God relationship, something more than sex—before. Even those other 'things' had been limited and rather brief.

He had not been expecting anything quite so overwhelming as this.

* * *

It had begun with Irene.

Irene Adler—the 'Woman'—had been the first. Not love, no. Sherlock still doubted whether or not his feelings for Irene were beyond a strange mix of sexual attraction and intellectual respect. But it had been the first time he considered the opportunity of a relationship.

But Irene was messy, Irene was complicated, Irene was…Irene.

She had been the first person to touch him.

What he meant was not as if she 'touched his soul', not anything so disgustingly sentimental. Not even just a touch that made his blood boil and mind swirl with lust. It was a touch that meant something—physical contact that was beyond physicality. Beyond such nonsense things as sentiment and lust—it was love, or at the very least, something very close.

But with everything surrounding them—Moriarty, Mycroft, Her Majesty—he hadn't entertained the idea long-term.

What remained after their sporadic and intense encounters was something that resembled a friendship, but had less interaction. Respect, longing, and care. He made sure she was safe, even when it seemed impossible.

But _after_ Irene, now that was different. It was…

Possible. Wanted. Mutual. Founded.

What he had with John was something entirely different, yet so much the same.

He and John belonged with each other—whether they were _together_ or not. They complimented each other too well for it to be mere coincidence that he stumbled—literally—into Sherlock's life when he did. It was the closest either of them came to believing in fate.

And while he tried to dismiss things like accidental brushes or too long glances, he couldn't.

They were too obviously meaningful.

He figured what he had with John was the same as it had ever been—that what had changed was his perception of it. Perception was what determined how you saw reality.

This reality was something else to Sherlock.

Sherlock had never preferred men over women, or vice versa. He preferred someone with intelligence, passion, drive, and faith—not in God, not even in him, but in themselves.

And while at some times it seemed as if Dr. John Watson was lacking more of these than he actually had, that was clearly the opposite.

He had all of them—when he needed them. Which is what mattered, that he had them when he needed them.

Sherlock admired that, not that he'd ever admitted it. Not when John saved his life (any of the times), not even when he'd been about to take his own life.

But he'd made a decision, up on that rooftop, moments after he had thrown down his last connection to John.

He had to live, to make sure John knew how he felt.

He'd never considered John someone he was physically attracted to, but he found the man endlessly fascinating. He wanted to continue being fascinated.

So he decided not to die.

* * *

Honestly, until that moment, he had been completely willing to give his life for the lives of his friends. Even with the back-up plan in place, even though he knew Moriarty's men would never know the difference, he had almost jumped off that building.

But, split seconds before his life could be given, he knew.

John had to know. Whether it was just continuing on as they had been, or it became something more—John had always been insistent that he wasn't _gay_, but Sherlock had ideas that were at least partially contradictory—he wanted to live, to see the outcome of this change of events.

Skin was important, he decided, because it was the canvas on which our emotions were painted for the world to see. Whether it was lust, or innocence, guilt, familiarity, comfort, or anything in between—the flesh was our interpreter.

And Sherlock had something he wanted to share.

* * *

**A/N: Weird thought process here. I feel as if the sort-of-thesis changes somewhere in the middle, then attempts to switch back. I don't know. Essay-writing jargon, ugh. Damn English classes. On a separate note, I never really felt Sherlock and Irene were supposed to end up together—just that they were kind of a touchstone for each other. I feel as if they were meant to be friends in the end, and that's why he saved her. Thoughts? Review?**


	8. Epiphany

"I love you, John," he said.

No reason. No lead-in. No long, comfortable silence of deep thought—though John wouldn't really know, they weren't in the same room beforehand.

Sherlock had simply walked into the bedroom and said it.

John had been in Sherlock's bed, with a book, killing a few minutes until Sherlock would join him.

When the man finally pulled himself away from his experiment and come to find him, he just spit it out.

All casual-like, too. Like a realization. Like it wasn't the single-most important moment of either of their lives, no. This was just another observation.

So John matched him.

He looked up from his book, managing to suppress his raw astonishment, and with a gentle smile, replied, "I love you, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock had nodded, and left the room again.

_Wait, what?_

John, thoroughly confused, sat for several minutes.

Did that actually happen, or had he dozed off already?

Realizing Sherlock probably wouldn't be coming to bed anytime soon, John gets up and shuffles to the kitchen.

He finds Sherlock hunched over his microscope, as expected.

John stands, watching, until he can't take it anymore. "So, that's it, then?"

"What?" Sherlock asks without looking up.

"We're not going to talk about what just happened?"

"Do we need to?" Sherlock asks, genuinely confused.

"Uh, yeah. We should."

Sherlock sighs—not like he's annoyed that John is pulling him from his experiment or because they were going to _talk_, which Sherlock often found dreadfully boring, but just a simple sigh. A simple exhale of carbon dioxide.

John, so unused to the nature of the sound, actually takes a half-step back, worried something could be wrong with his flatmate.

Well, flatmate-slash-friend-slash-partner-slash-lover.

Sherlock turns toward John, back straightened, and waits for John to begin the conversation.

"You just told me that you love me," John starts.

"Yes."

John pauses. "And went back to your experiment?"

"Clearly."

John shrugs his shoulders, resting his hands on his hips. "Just because you felt like it?"

"Yes."

John opens his mouth to speak again, but can't manage to find the words.

Sherlock watches him. "I was in the middle of looking at some slides when the thought occurred to me. And I know how you like me to…_voice_ things like this, so I told you and then went back to the experiment."

"Just like that?"

Sherlock nods, "Just like that, John."

"Okay," he half-chuckles, his brain still attempting to process the whole of the situation.

"And then you returned the sentiment. Are we just going to skip over that part?" Sherlock asks with a smirk, catching on to John's exasperation.

"No, I did," John replies simply.

"So, what's the problem? The feeling is mutual, that much we covered, so I don't understand your confusion."

"You don't understand my confusion?" John asks incredulously.

Sherlock, sensing he had said something wrong, stands and walks over to John. He takes the man's hands in his own and leans in close. "Explain it to me," he whispers.

"Most people would make a big deal about this sort of thing," John whispers back, responding to Sherlock's proximity by also lessening the space between them.

"We're not most people, are we?" he tests, as if asking for John's actual opinion.

"No, we're not," John states, "which makes it all the more important, Sher."

Sherlock smiles. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," he repeats.

Sherlock drops his forehead to John's.

John tilts his head up, and presses his lips tentatively to the other man's.

"I do love you," Sherlock says. "Even if I can't always express it in a way you'll recognize, or understand, I do."

"I know," John murmurs, and kisses him again. "I love you, too, you big lug."

"Does that mean I'm forgiven?" Sherlock asks, sliding a hand onto John's waist, underneath his sleep-shirt.

Sherlock's hands on his skin makes him shiver. "Why not?" John says.

"Good," Sherlock murmurs against John's lips. "Because I'm ready for bed, now."

John smiles.

* * *

**A/N: Fluff for my heart. Oh, and "Sher" is my new personal favorite thing ever. It's mine. I called dibs. (Actually, I don't know if it's actually a thing or anything, but I came up with this on my own. Multiple people can have the same idea first, right?) I take reviews and blood sacrifices, payment is up to you.**


	9. Question (Part I of II)

John doesn't even know why Sherlock asked it. He had never really set much weight on matters of the heart—as everyone knew—but this seemed different.

It had weight. More weight than their obese client—Mr. Donahue—whose wife had suddenly gone missing.

Sherlock had told him she ran off with gardener—which she had, he later proved—but the heavy, surprisingly egotistical Mr. Donahue wouldn't hear it—instead, he saw it, the poor bastard.

Sherlock and John had been _together_ for nearly a year, and what a year it was. They had been inseparable from the beginning—now they were practically one person. With two minds, two bodies, but only one heart.

But Sherlock was always so evasive when it came to things of a personal nature, so of course he asked when John was halfway across the flat and couldn't even hear him.

"Do you love me, John?"

* * *

**Part one of two; 'Question' and 'Answer'.**


	10. Answer (Part II of II)

_Damn Sherlock_, John thinks. _Getting me all flustered first thing in the morning, just before we leave the house._

Sherlock had shouted when John was nearly halfway across the flat, but John heard him. Nearly fell over.

He played like he hadn't, though, unsure of what to say and sure he didn't want to yell it across the damn bloody flat.

So he finished getting dressed, did some breathing, and came downstairs. "Did you say something?" he asked, only half-hoping Sherlock would ask it again.

"I asked if you wanted tea," Sherlock lies flawlessly. If John didn't know better, he would believe him in a second.

"That would be lovely," John says with a smile, playing along.

Sherlock pours him a cup. "Sugar?"

John, taking the opportunity, walks up behind his tall, slim partner and wraps his hands around Sherlock's hips. He leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock's shoulder.

And he whispers, clearly and honestly, to the first question.

"Yes."

Sherlock smiles.

* * *

**Part two of two; 'Question' and 'Answer'.**


End file.
